Several long, monotonous days passed. Jackie was sick and tired of visiting printing firms and watching reams of paper being fed into large, noisy machines. The trouble with the photo-fit was its “normalcy”; she saw up to half a dozen swarthy types who could have been Danny Boy. They all had alibis of sorts, and it was a laborious process - and the DCS hadn’t sanctioned DNA testing.‘We have no evidence to support random testing of people employed in the print trade; it’s discriminatory, and not what the public would expect,’ he had said at their last update meeting.Excuse me. It’s a rational line of enquiry. Political correctness, be damned.The MIR was littered with paperwork. She had a pile of statements to plough through; more late nights, and a fatter waistline – up to twenty-seven inches. She read though her notebook; there were also a few loose ends to tie up – interview the two women who were assaulted by Gilbert, was one – check up on Carol, was another. But thank God the anticipated outbreak of HIV hadn’t materialised, that was one relief.DI Andy Hillock had been carrying out an investigation into the allegations against DI Hemming. She had been interviewed. It hadn’t gone well.DI Hillock read from his notes. ‘You established from Michael Mitchell’s phone records that he was the partner of your tom, Candice. Is that correct?’‘Yes.’‘And by a fine piece of detection, you traced her calls?’Patronising git.‘Yes.’He leant back in his chair, arms folded across his chest; a knowing smirk slunk onto his face. ‘And then you lost his mobile?’‘Not exactly.’He tapped the table with his pen. ‘What does that mean?’She could see he was forcing her into a corner. ‘The phone went missing from Mr. Mitchell’s locker.’And then the strike. ‘So you weren’t bright enough to realise it was key evidence.’‘It wasn’t evidence at the time.’And then the climax. ‘You fucked-up.’She started to protest, but he waved it away. The rationale: ‘while I could understand that DC James would not necessarily be aware of the implications ... you, DS Steel, should know better.’Asshole.‘If you say so.’‘I do say so, and I will be recommending disciplinary action.’Jackie jumped out of her seat, and glowered at him. ‘That’s unwarranted ... DCI Angers ...’ she stopped when he held up a hand.‘I am the IO in this investigation, not DCI Angers.’Self-righteous prick.So she could expect a verbal warning. In a way it was a just outcome considering she’d bent the rules; but she couldn’t wait to see the back of DI Andy Hillock.Later, Paul told her his interview was just as bad, if it was any consolation. The DI had waved away his protests; hadn’t been interested in what the asshole had considered “excuses”.‘I told him fine, you want to take disciplinary action, it’s your decision, but I want it on record that I’m fully accountable for the phone going missing, not DS Steel.’‘You didn’t have to do that, Paul.’‘Jackie, he’s just a bully; an immature tosser.’And a dirty piece of work.She laughed; had to see the funny side. ‘Well we both agree on one thing, then. DCI Angers is a big teddy-bear by comparison.’

Marty felt shafted as he read the Evening Argus. Shafted by Tania Simpson and shafted by Angers and his two cohorts; Jackie Steel and Paul James. He had belatedly deleted the calls as a precaution, but the latest headlines had touched a nerve and his head was on the block. He wriggled uncomfortably on his seat in the interview room, underneath the flickering fluorescent light. The DCS and Kathy Carmichael, the HR Manager, sitting opposite him, were shaking their heads at Tania Simpson’s expose:The Price of Vice – Gruesome Threesome MysteryWhile the article never mentioned any facts, there was an insinuation that the police had withheld vital evidence. Covering up relevant information, it said. He glanced at the peeling wall paint hoping for inspiration – it was going to be a tricky interview.Now, he had to defend a serious allegation of misconduct. According to them, his non-disclosure of phone calls from Candice on the night she died merited disciplinary action. He had flatly denied it, but he was shown Jackie’s report plus the incriminating evidence.Adam Forsyth pointed to the transcript of calls. Highlighted by a yellow marker pen, was Candice’s number calling his mobile phone twice. ‘How do you explain this?’By denying everything. Let them prove it.‘All I can say is, I never received them.’‘So why do both calls show time duration of a couple of minutes?’‘I don’t know, Sir.’Kathy Carmichael interrupted. ‘Adam, we have enough to take action.’The DCS sighed, put the file back on the table, steepled his hands, and announced his decision. ‘DI Hemming, the allegations warrant immediate suspension. I will confirm that in writing today, together with the conditions and your rights. Is that understood?’So they were out to find a scapegoat? Divert the press from a lack of progress.‘Suspension?’The HR Manager held up a hand, and then read from her notes. ‘It’s a precautionary measure to enable the Investigating Officer to carry out a full investigation; it’s not implying the allegation has been prejudged in any way, or as a means of punishment.’The look on the DCS face implied otherwise.‘I see. What happens next?’The DCS coughed. ‘If you can support your claim ... well ... the IO would take it into consideration.’A snowflake in hell’s chance, by the look on Forsyth’s face.‘I see. Who is the IO?’‘DI Andy Hillock.’‘Isn’t he Bristol CID?’‘Exactly. He’s totally independent. We are grateful to the Avon force for seconding him to us.’Cover Forsyth’s ass, more like.That signalled the end of the interview. He handed over his identity card and mini-van keys; relieved looks from the DCS and HR Manager, a scowl from him.Bastards.Back at his semi-detached cottage, some ten miles outside Bridleton, he shaved, ran a hot bath, and considered his next move while relaxing in the tub. Being divorced, he didn’t have a wife and screaming kids to worry about. He was still on full pay and benefits.Until they dismissed him.So now he had to rely on the Insurance policy; Councillor Winterbotham to get him out of the shit, but he had to think it through very carefully. It would be a one-off reprieve; Dixon would want the video erased from his mobile. The explanation had to sound plausible without implicating Dixon.And then there was Andy Hillock. He needed to know what sort of officer he was; trustworthy, or as devious as Forsyth. Only one way to find out; his Bristol contacts.He pulled the plug on the tub, dried himself, and changed into casual clothes: thick navy-blue roll-top sweater and Levi’s. Black socks and loafers – and he was ready. His Honda Civic parked outside in the drive had seen better days; a few dents he’d picked up over the years, but it was reliable.The Black Swan near Bristol docks was his third port of call. It had a small bar downstairs and a quiz room upstairs. A couple of weather-beaten shirkers he knew were sat on the wooden bench outside, braving the cold south-westerly while cradling their fags.‘Seen Clipper, today?’ Clipper was a local informant who probably knew more about the workings of the CID than did the coppers. It was a risk touting Clipper; but he needed an edge.‘Aye lad,’ said one, pointing to a frothy mug beside him. ‘Having a slash out the back.’That was lucky, first time that day. He could feel the wheel of fortune spin back his way. He shivered in the evening air, and made his way inside.He bumped into Clipper at the bar entrance. ‘I’m buying,’ he said, while indicating that the purchase was more than a drink. ‘Cosy chat upstairs, OK?’A couple of pints of Brigstow, a nod and a wink from the landlord, and they had the upstairs room unlocked.‘Okay Mr. Hemming, what’s on your mind?’ There was a sly look on his face. If Clipper had been an animal he would be a weasel: a slim rakish man with a long nose and protruding ears - and mesmerising eyes. He was wearing a brown overcoat with a fur collar, over a white shirt.They had chosen a table by the window where they could see the passing pedestrians below illuminated under the street lamp. Any sign of trouble and Clipper would be off to his burrow.‘DI Andy Hillock.’Clipper stared. His beady eyes bored into Marty’s skull. ‘I’m not going there,’ he said.‘This is private. A one-off ... and I’m buying, remember.’Clipper brushed a hand across his nose. Money talked. ‘Nasty piece of work. He’s ambitious; and he ain’t too fussed who he treads on to get results.’No wonder they chose him. It was going to be a stitch-up.Marty sat back, deep in thought.Clipper swallowed a gulp of his pint. ‘If you’re buying, there’s more.’Marty looked at him, raised an eyebrow.Clipper leered. ‘What’s it worth?’‘Depends on what you’ve got.’‘It’s tasty.’Marty sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a few notes and put them on the table. ‘If it’s on target, a bullseye should cover your costs.’Clipper reached out a hand and slipped the money into his overcoat pocket. ‘He’s a gambler, Mr. Hemming. Poker, mainly.’ Clipper’s eyes flickered, and he lowered his voice. ‘Word is, he owes several grand and a few favours to some unsavoury characters.’Interesting.‘Anyone I know?’Clipper closed his mouth; looked expectantly at the table.Marty grunted and put a few more notes on the table. ‘The names?’The money disappeared into Clipper’s overcoat. ‘I hear the Creek brothers have a piece of the action.’The Creek brothers – local mafia; heavily invested into illegal gambling and prostitution.Marty picked up his pint and took a hearty swig. ‘Cheers.’Clipper seemed disappointed. ‘Is that it, then?’Marty left his pint on the table and got up. ‘It’s enough. Oh, and by the way, Clipper, this conversation never happened. I’ll know if you leak anything, and then your life won’t be worth living … you understand?’Clipper put a finger across his lips. ‘Sealed, Mr. Hemming.’Maybe - but it was the edge he needed if it came to it.Dixon Winterbotham would be a completely different animal; more of a baboon than a weasel. Marty had called in at the town-hall the following morning after a restless night, but with a draft plan in his mind. The PA apologised, said the Councillor was at a meeting in Bristol; back after lunch.He guessed where Dixon would be: Expressway Clinic. The trip in his Civic took nearly forty-five minutes by the time he manoeuvred around the city traffic. He found a space in a council parking area close by, and walked to the clinic.Dixon had told him he was known as Mr. Winters at the clinic, and Marty tested his theory at the reception desk.‘I’m waiting for Mr. Winters to complete his treatment.’The young girl, wearing a blue uniform that matched the colour of her eyes, just nodded and motioned to a seat. ‘He’s with Dr Avis. Help yourself to tea or coffee.’Correct assumption.He helped himself to black coffee from a percolator and an oatmeal biscuit while he waited. The reception area had had a make-over since he was last there. An interior designer must have been given free rein and plenty of money; no IKEA furniture here; it was all solid wood and leather sofas scattered with art nouveau cushions. Sepia pictures of Bristol, as it was a hundred years ago, adorned the walls; there were fresh floral arrangements in Chinese pots resting on ample side tables, along with a few “Homes & Garden” periodicals.No expense spared. He thought back to the headline in the Evening Argus.The Price of Vice.He was on his second cup when Mr. Winters strode into reception with an alarmed look on his face. When he recognised Marty he did a double-take, but didn’t speak. Instead he asked the receptionist to book a double appointment for the following week. No, it couldn’t wait – it was urgent.Marty was at the door when Mr. Winters turned around. Dixon was scowling, but waited until they were outside before speaking.‘What now?’‘Time we had a quiet chat in Cloud Nine.’‘Why?’‘I’m calling in a favour.’Dixon laughed. One of those laughs that sounded hollow and desperate. ‘Just as well it’s now, then. I seem to have exhausted the high-active drugs; they’re going to try the latest experimental ones next week.’‘That bad?’Dixon grimaced. ‘Seems like it’s a last resort.’ Another hollow laugh. ‘Welcome to hell.’Marty steered Dixon into the massage parlour; he paid for a room – without a girl. ‘No we’re not gay ... just want some privacy,’ he told the smirking manager.Marty sat on the bed and got down to business. He explained his predicament and that an Investigating Officer had been appointed. Then he told Dixon that he would be interviewed as a witness, probably the following week, if they got their finger out.Dixon was sitting on the plastic chair: he looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get it.’‘You’re my alibi.’ Marty outlined the plan. ‘Get me off the hook, and the video never existed.’Dixon shrugged. ‘The only reason I’ll go along with this is to protect my family, especially my eldest son, from unwanted media attention. David’s due to take his finals soon and he’s in line for a rowing blue. Otherwise, I couldn’t give a shit what you do with the video.’Nevertheless - sorted.

Jackie waited until lunchtime to blow the whistle on Marty, and to receive a bollocking for ‘losing’ evidence. She found Angers sitting alone, and stuffing himself full of unhealthy calories, in the canteen; hopefully he would be in a receptive mood.She put her zero-fat yoghourt, apple, and diet coke on his table. ‘Can I join you, guv?’He nodded, cut a lump off a plump sausage, and grimaced at her snack. ‘Is it Lent already?’Not for him anyway. He had really gone overboard; he must have ordered a double helping of the all-day breakfast, but it smelt good.‘No time, guv.’ Untrue. Excessive alcohol the last few days had reached the parts that worried her; bloated stomach was one. ‘Have to be out and about this afternoon searching for Danny Boy.’He waved a greasy fork. ‘It’s important to keep up your strength. Give the kidneys a work-out.’She lifted an eyebrow, while peeling off the foil on her yoghourt. ‘Why’s that guv?’He leaned close. ‘My kid sister ... well she’s sick, may need a new kidney.’ He looked a little guiltily at his plate, before forking a fried egg in his cavern. ‘I’m making sure mine are okay.’Not like that, though.Jackie felt a déjà vu moment coming on. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, guv.’He shook his head. ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that. Anyway, that’s enough of my worries ... anything you want from me?’He’s on the ball, today.‘Well guv, it’s delicate ...’ she ate her snack and gave him a brief update while he munched his way through his mountain. The bottom line was that the phone transcript records showed Candice calling Marty’s number on the night of her murder.‘Have you written it up?’She nodded. ‘Everything, guv.’‘And the phone?’Now for the bollocking.‘It wasn’t evidence at the time, guv. And since this Mike’s death this morning, it’s gone missing.’He didn’t say anything, just stared at his empty plate. She didn’t know whether to apologise or sweat it out. After what seemed like a lifetime, he broke the silence.‘It may be nothing, or it may be crucial. But either way I need to inform the DCS and HR.’ He stared at her. Only his lips moved. ‘Jackie ... please tell me you followed proper procedures ... there’s no hidden agenda, no unconventional methods, nothing that could backfire on you?’He was sharp. And Paul’s 1-1 was definitely a priority now.‘The tracking process has been legit, guv.’ Don’t gulp, girl. Keep it together. ‘PC Tony Allen was present when DC James and I recorded the phone numbers at Mike’s bedside.’He rubbed his stomach and relaxed He seemed satisfied. ‘Pity about the phone; but you weren’t to know.’Whew.They went back to the MIR and Jackie handed over the file. Also, DI Hemming’s statement at Candice’s crime scene. Angers looked a little saddened; she watched him trudge slowly out of the door, his shoulders bent as though he had a lot on his mind.She called Paul: he was still at the hospital filling in a lost property form; all other avenues had been eliminated, nobody had found the phone. She told him to stay there, she was on her way.When she arrived, she found him waiting by reception and suggested they request a private room somewhere. Paul frowned, but Jackie told him not to worry. After a ten minute walk around, one of the porters found a small unattended rest-room on the ground floor, near the neurology unit. She settled into the leather couch and plumped up a cushion; he sat stiffly in a matching armchair.She came straight to the point. ‘I told the DCI about the phone records implicating Marty. He asked if we followed proper procedures ... there was no hidden agenda, no unconventional methods, nothing that could backfire on us.’ She could see Paul tensing up as if every word was stabbing him in the heart. ‘I told him it was legit, that PC Tony Allen was present when you and I recorded the phone numbers at Mike’s bedside.’ She paused while he took it in. ‘Do you have any problems with that?’He screwed up his face, scratched his head, and flicked a lock of hair out of his right eye as though having conflicting thoughts; almost an internal struggle. Then he lounged back in his armchair, seemingly coming to terms with himself.His voice was firm, as was his stare. ‘Why should I have a problem? As you said Sarge, it was all legit.’Did I hear right? Better check.‘Anything else?’‘Yes Sarge. I want it on record that this investigation was carried out by me with your permission; that I am fully accountable for the outcome ... however unpleasant it might be.’Bloody hell. Where did that come from? Now only his mother to kick into touch.She nodded. ‘Consider it done ... thanks.’He wasn’t finished. ‘And another thing, the phone was my responsibility. I screwed up.’She shook her head and waved a hand at him, as if it wasn’t important. ‘The DCI is okay with that, he said we weren’t to know.’He smiled then chuckled. ‘I’m off the hook then?’She threw her cushion at him. ‘And if we’re talking about other things ... why didn’t your mother like my outfit, or is it me?’‘Straight up?’Jackie nodded.‘She says you’re too old for me.’Jackie leant back and smiled. ‘And what do you think?’‘I can make up my own mind who I want to be with ... I don’t see an age gap, I’m cool.’Hold on, cowboy.‘Yeah ... well ... I’m cool too, but now isn’t the time to go there. Operation Venus first, okay?’***Paul could see she was taken aback by his new-found assertiveness. And he felt good about it; he owed Tony a drink or two. He had a difficult five minutes at first, but if DI Hemming was corrupt or withholding evidence for whatever reason it was only right that they blew the whistle. And Jackie was quite right. The actual collating of the phone calls was legit, and he had accepted his involvement. If that’s what it took to be a mature professional, then he’d better carry on acting like one.If he could get his shaky relationship back on course, his mother would be given short shrift; he would move out and find a flat.Everything was going to be all right.

Jackie was sitting at her desk in the MIR planning her search enquiry when Paul rushed in with a sheaf of papers. The episode at the Blacksmiths Arms was now history; so they had agreed to cool it while Operation Venus was gearing-up. Some one hundred officers were now involved; Jackie’s focus was to find and eliminate Danny Boy from their enquiries.‘Take a look at this,’ he said. ‘Candice’s number was registered; it matches the addict’s flat address, and she made two calls on the night of her death. Guess who to?’Jackie stared at him. ‘I don’t need to guess; it’s Marty, right?’He nodded. ‘Now what?’‘Now you go to the hospital, see if Mike’s kicked the bucket and, if not, bag up the mobile phone and bring it back.’He hesitated. ‘Don’t you want to know about the other numbers?’Jackie sat back, and folded her arms. ‘Go on then, surprise me.’‘Well I called all of them. Candice’s number, first. From the transcript records, she made no more calls after that night, and her number’s unobtainable.’‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? She was lying face down in a pile of dog shit on the common, with her head caved in. The odds on her ever making another call are zero ... unless it’s her ghost calling from beyond the grave.’Paul grimaced; he seemed to looking for inspiration amongst the other numbers. He brightened up, and pointed to one. ‘This one thought I was Mike. He offered me a cut-price deal on smack. I said I’d call him back.’Jackie unfolded her arms. ‘That’s more interesting. I fancy a snort at our Christmas knees-up at the Nelson. Make sure you follow that one up.’He pulled a face. ‘Are you serious?’She laughed. ‘Paul, you’re so naive. That’s our reward for busting the scumbag.’He appeared shocked. ‘You are serious?’She sighed. ‘Just leave the papers, I’ll sort it out.’With Paul gone, she reviewed the transcript and carefully wrote up a report, attaching the documentation as an appendix. Now she faced a dilemma; if she confronted Marty he would wipe off any call history from his mobile, that’s if he hadn’t already. And what would she achieve? Nothing.No, she would talk to Angers when Paul got back with the phone.But he didn’t.He called her from the hospital. ‘Mike died an hour ago.’Jackie felt a touch of remorse for her earlier behaviour. What a waste of a human life. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’He coughed. ‘I sorted through his personal effects. No mobile.’Jackie swore. ‘Have you talked to the plod?’‘More bad news. Allegedly, Tony was having a tea-break when it happened. When he returned, another patient was in the bed. They dumped Mike’s belongings in a couple of carrier bags and left it on Tony’s chair.’‘Fuck.’‘What do you want me to do?’Jackie could think of a few; none of them pleasant. ‘You know the procedure. Look in the locker, maybe it dropped on the floor, or one of the nurses has got it. If it doesn’t surface you’ll have to report a stolen mobile, for what good it’s going to do.’‘Anything else?’‘Is Tony still there?’‘Yes, but Albert wants him back, PDQ.’‘I’ll deal with Albert. You sit down with Tony and get him to write a report. I want the full McCoy explained in detail ... and it had better be good.’‘What about Mike’s stuff?’For God’s sake Paul. I’m not your mother.‘That’s a job for Tony when he’s finished. I want every morsel bagged and labelled, and then sent to the evidence room.’‘Anything ...’Jackie cut the call. She needed to have a serious 1-1 with him. His moral high-ground, his lack of initiative, his kow-towing to her – and his bloody mother; interfering old bat.***Paul blamed himself. Why couldn’t he think straight when he talked to Jackie? He became tongue-tied and nervous – he really would have to pull himself together or she would ditch him completely. Even though he could sense a mutual attraction, she would lose patience with his adolescent behaviour.Grow up, he told himself.He took out his frustration on Tony. Gave him the third degree about leaving the building to get some fresh air, without notifying the doctor where he was going; and left him in no doubt that it could be a disciplinary.Paul was surprised. He had expected Tony to wriggle and act up, but the rebuke was accepted in a mature manner, which was more than could be said for him.It was a salutary lesson – one that he would adopt in future.

Daniel surveyed the disarray in his new bedroom. Not too much blood on the sheets or on his clothes, but his washing machine would be kept busy. Now he had a bigger problem.How to dispose of Precious?Simplest would be to wrap her in a carpet and dump her at the landfill site; but he wanted her to completely disappear. No trace; no evidence, nothing – at worst, a missing person.But that could wait until morning. He dumped the body in the bath, cleaned himself up, switched off the electricity, locked the door behind him, and returned to his bed-sit. A Google search on his Acer laptop provided the solution.He slept like a baby that night.At ten the next morning, he was waiting outside Makro cash and carry in his workman’s overalls. He bought four 5-litre packs of industrial drain cleaner, a couple of large sheets of heavy-duty plastic, thick rubber gloves, and strong adhesive tape with his weekly groceries.Back at his new home he parked the Ford outside the block and made a few trips up the stairs with his cargo of goodies. A few people were up and about but no one bothered him; he blended in. No nosy neighbours to worry about. Dumping the bags in his lounge, he made himself a poached egg on toast, swilled down with a cup of tea.After that, he got to work. He put on his rubber gloves, plugged the bath hole, slit open the body with a carving knife to drain out the fluids, and poured all twenty litres of drain cleaner into the tub. Then he covered the top of the bath with the plastic sheeting and sealed it with the adhesive tape.No smell.By his estimate, it would take the caustic soda five days for Precious to dissolve into a gooey sludge.Perfect.He cleaned up, and then carried out an initial search of the flat. Within half an hour he had found all the basic information he would need; a bright red handbag containing a credit card, personal mail, mobile phone, rent book, and over four hundred pounds. Best of all was a bank pin number in her bedside drawer. He started to fill up the boot of his Ford with carrier bags of her clothes and toiletries, and gradually removed all of her belongings during that day. Oxfam would be pleased.A new start.Later, he leafed through the rent book. It seemed like a cash-in-hand set-up: no legal contracts that he could find in her flat; it was probably a tax evasion operation. The book had the name and address of the landlord’s agent: Gilbert Pratt who, according to Precious, was a sexual predator.Time to put that right.He locked up and traipsed back down the stairs again, and located Pratt’s house near the paper shop. He banged on the door, and heard a shuffling from inside. The door opened. Standing there was an ugly, fat brute in a dressing gown and slippers with a fag hanging out of his mouth. His face was chalky-white, apart from a few days growth of stubble.The man rubbed his chin with a grimy hand. His voice was croaky, like he had a hangover. ‘Who are you? What you want?‘Mr. Pratt ... Gilbert?The man nodded.He handed over the rent book. ‘I’m Dominic Bowman.’ He paused while Gilbert leafed through the book and digested the information. ‘I’m Miss Mogwase’s minder.’Gilbert seemed surprised. He coughed, and flicked away the dog-end. ‘Eh?’‘That means if you’re looking for rent see me about it. I don’t want her hassled ... you understand?’‘Look mister ...’Daniel interrupted. ‘Don’t mister me ... just leave her alone.’ He fished out his pile of cash and offered Gilbert two hundred pounds. ‘Go on then, take it and update the book in my name.’He watched Gilbert piggy eyes stare at the notes. It didn’t take long – just as he had reckoned.The money talked: a new ID.Result.It took him two weeks to relocate his business to a lock-up garage in a quiet location, end his tenancy at the bed-sit, and move into his new home.Precious was cooking nicely. With a few top-ups, the alkaline drain cleaner had worked up to a point; the flesh had decomposed into an oily grunge, but the bones hadn’t dissolved. He was expecting that; couldn’t risk an acid spillage or poisonous fumes in a third-floor flat, it was far too risky, but it lengthened the process.Between snacks of ham and tomato sandwiches, swilled down with cups of tea, he spent most of a whole day sawing up the skeleton and flushing buckets of delectable flesh soup safely down the toilet.The following day he bagged the bones and took them to his lock-up. There, it was safer to play around with acid and the fumes would be dissipated. A metal tub filled with industrial strength from one of his suppliers dissolved the remains in two days and completed the clean-up. He swilled out the residue down the drain outside.Returning to his flat, he sat down in his comfortable armchair, and switched on the TV.No Precious, no evidence; job done.Result.

Early next morning, Jackie was going through the motions and trying to catch up with the paperwork in the MIR. Her stomach was protesting from an overdose of tequila slammers that a handful of paracetamols and a pot of black coffee hadn’t budged, and she wasn’t surprised to hear DC James had called in sick.She shook her head; but then wished she hadn’t disturbed the sensitive membranes that pounded against her forehead.Lightweight; at least she’d made it in.‘Ah, Jackie, there you are.’ The familiar voice of DCI Angers penetrated her senses.She looked up. ‘Guv?’He seemed engrossed in picking out a sweet from a paper bag. ‘The chocolate ones are best,’ he said. ‘Do you want one?’She gulped back the nausea. ‘Er, not right now, thanks.’He pocketed the bag, and perched on nearby desk-top. ‘I want you to go and get a photo-fit from the Georgina tom ... take Reilly with you.’‘I thought DI Hemming ...’ she stopped when he waved an arm at her.‘He’s following up leads in the Bristol tom’s murder. DNA matches our killer; so it’s now included in Operation Venus, and the DCS has made that a priority.’‘I see.’‘No you don’t see.’ He looked at his watch.Not Groundhog Day again.‘They’re holding a press conference right now. You can guess what Tania Simpson would make of it.’Time to be quiet. Let him talk. ‘Yes guv.’‘What?’‘Nothing, guv.’He didn’t seem interested in discussing it further. He delved back into his bag of sweets, and looked surprised to see her still seated.‘Well, chop-chop. I haven’t got all day to sit around and gossip.’Dickhead.Jackie tidied up her files, and then went to find Reilly. Not that he took much finding; he was bent over his computer, seemingly concentrating on a mass of statistics being churned out.She pointed at the screen. ‘Anything interesting?’‘Not a lot. I’ll show you.’ He switched screens and increased the volume. Jackie peered over his shoulder, and watched a video of screaming seagulls dive-bombing what looked like the landfill site.‘What’s that?’‘That, Jackie, is my snog under the mistletoe ... remember?’She did. DCI Angers alternative Xmas present. ‘That’s it then?’‘Er ... not quite.’ He glanced around, and kept his voice low. ‘I’m going to splice a couple of minutes of some sexy action at the beginning to get him hooked ... maybe put a bit more in the middle, and end. Forty minutes of seagull crap with five minutes of Vatican action.’She clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Brilliant.’‘Yeah, I thought so too.’‘Well sorry to have to drag you away from your work, but we’re going to see a witness ... I need a realistic photo-fit of a suspect.’He looked pleased. ‘Great, I can test out my E-fit software.’She put on her DCI Angers impression. ‘Come along then, chop-chop. I can’t stand around gossiping.’He laughed – and then powered down, picked up his laptop, and followed her out.While Georgina’s recollection of Danny Boy was vivid, it didn’t translate to the screen. They were sitting in her kitchen drinking tea, and Reilly was demonstrating his E-fit talents; but to no avail. The initial version could have been a vicar; the second any Joe Bloggs, but the one they finally ended up with did match the description in the interview file.Jackie repeated the question. ‘Does this look like him?’Georgina shuddered. ‘Much closer.’‘But not quite there?’‘It was his eyes ... they were cruel ... and then the expression when he came back from Jasmine’s room.’ She plucked a tissue from her sleeve and wiped a tear away. ‘He is evil.’Reilly shrugged. ‘Sorry ... this is the best we can do.’Jackie could see that Georgina was becoming upset. The terror was still raw. ‘Okay, Georgina, you’ve been a great help.’Hopefully.Jackie studied the E-fit. Imprinting the image into her brain.Who are you? Where are you?

It’s becoming a habit, thought Jackie as she checked the wall clock. It was ten minutes to eight, and another twelve hour shift. Earlier at six, the DCS had held another update meeting, handed out assignments, and given a pep-talk which sounded more like a bollocking all round.The major obstacle to their progress was the lack of a suspect; no witnesses to the crimes, nothing tangible to follow-up, apart from Danny Boy and his assault on Georgina. The DCS had made it clear, while it was one immediate line of enquiry it was not the only one. He spouted words of wisdom.‘Violence is abhorrent, but we all know it is an everyday occurrence: wives, husbands, lovers and children can all suffer at the hand of a perpetrator.’ He paused for effect, lowered his voice. ‘But allegedly, in this case violence was committed against a tom.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of DI Hemming. ‘Marty, work with Orson on this one. Let’s eliminate this line of enquiry as quickly as possible.’ He shot them both a glance. ‘Prioritise this today.’She received the short straw from Angers. Reilly would be working with DI Hemming to produce a photo-fit, and then she would be leading a team in door-to-door enquiries.Sod it. More walking the streets. And snow was forecast.She made up her mind. No circuit training; no running, not even a light jog that night. It would be listening to Sabbatical at the Blacksmith’s Arms with DC James. She called him at his home, hoping it was game on.He sounded surprised, but also pleased. ‘Er ... sure. Want me to pick you up?’‘Okay, say nine?’‘Hang on a minute, mother’s waving at me.’She could hear raised voices in the background, sounded like a domestic. Then he came back.‘Er ... I’ll have to meet you there, mother’s going someplace with Daisy.’‘Daisy?’‘Er ... tell you later.’She sighed. ‘Okay Paul, see you there.’ She would be jogging after all. Forget the heavy metal gear – just a tracksuit and trainers, and no make-up – very sexy, ha ha.Shit.Five minutes later as she was packing up, he called her back. ‘Mother said she’d drop us off. If it’s all right, we’ll try and cadge a lift back.’She punched the air. ‘Sounds good. See you soon.’Sabbatical, here I come.Despite the disapproving looks and a couple of barbed comments from Paul’s mother and Daisy, Jackie felt buoyant. She’d changed into a simple outfit in case the lift back didn’t materialise: a Primal Wear jersey with the Iron Maiden logo, black jeans, combat boots, and a studded leather jacket.Par for the course, really.And Paul was wearing great gear too under his greatcoat; biker’s boots, a wide sleeved, buttonless shirt, and tight black trousers with a bullet belt, which was a real turn-on for her.Everything was going to turn out right.When they arrived at the pub, a light flurry of snow was falling; dusting vehicles and motor bikes with a soft white layer. They quickly ducked inside and Paul kept to his promise of getting the first round in, while she made her way to where Sabbatical was playing. The room, which often accommodated wedding receptions, could hold around sixty or so comfortably. It was filling up; predominately bikers and some middle aged-men in leather gear – although she could make out several clusters of youngsters swigging lagers, stamping their feet, and shaking their heads to the music.Music?Sabbatical were playing at the far end, on a raised platform full of loudspeakers, electronic gear, flashing headlights, and guitar wires. They were raucous, rough, and ready; the lead singer – wearing a camouflaged combat jacket and khaki jeans - had a strident, rasping voice, and the similarly attired band was brain-numbingly loud.She found a couple of spare seats at a shared table and listened to a crucifixion of a couple of numbers - Paranoid, followed by Raining Blood.Loud, head banging stuff – great.Paul cautiously edged in through the door with a drinks tray; found her, and dumped four pints and four shots of tequila, plus a couple of packets of crisps, on the table. He slung his coat over the back of his chair, bent close, and yelled in her ear. ‘It’s manic out there. Polly’s off sick; and the temp doesn’t have a clue.’Jackie shrugged with the injustice of it all, made a thumbs-up motion at the drinks, and picked up her pint. ‘To crime.’Paul smiled, and engaged his pint. ‘And punishment.’And they punished a few during the following hour.‘We’ll round off our last session, starting with Angel of Death,’ announced the lead singer after the break, ‘but no Stargazer, tonight.’ He laughed and pointed at the window. ‘Snow’s heavy outside.’A few bikers got up, looked out the window, shook their heads, and then left the room. Jackie looked at Paul. ‘What do you think?’‘I’ll go and see. Call mother, find out what’s happening.’Jackie reached into her pocket, and pulled out a tenner. ‘Get another round in while you’re at it.’She moved over to the window; the car-park was partly illuminated by the pub lights, but it was difficult to see through the falling snow. She could just make out a few bikers, with frosted goggles, pushing their Harleys around drifting snow mounds. It looked bleak.And it got worse.According to Chris the pub grounds and lane leading up to the by-pass was impassable. The wind had drifted the snow their way.One snowflake and the country grinds to a halt.‘Mother’s staying at Daisy’s,’ said Paul, when he returned with the drinks. ‘And we’re snowed in, until the ploughs get here. Chris has a few spades if anyone wants to clear a path.’‘Sod that. I’m not trudging through a foot of slush and ice tonight. You say he’s got a couple of guest rooms ...’ she stopped when Paul shook his head.‘The band’s booked them.’‘So it’s either digging our way out of this shit-hole, or we get to share the night with about twenty bikers. Marvellous.’Paul picked up his tequila, and downed it. ‘Look on the bright side. The shit-hole’s a pub.’Jackie got up and picked up her drink. ‘Come on. Let’s at least go and sit in the lounge bar by the log-fire.’Good idea, but shared by thirty others – and they were last in line. So it was a wooden bench by the spluttering gas fire in the public bar.Oh hell.Jackie was woken from her tequila hangover by the sound of heavy machinery. She glanced at her watch. The illuminated dial showed four-thirty five. It was still dark but there was plenty of activity outside. She got up and looked out the window. Clear starry sky; two snow ploughs clearing a driveway, a few 4X4’s leaving – and Chris was running a mini-bus service for the stragglers.She nudged Paul awake. ‘Time to go, sleepy-head.’He groaned and rubbed his head. His face had a yellow tinge. ‘I’m sick.’She didn’t feel so good either – and there was an early meeting planned. ‘We can cadge a lift into town on the minibus.’He frowned. ‘Minibus?’‘Chris has one outside.’He slumped back in his seat. ‘I’m out of it.’She would have snarled had she felt up to it. As it was, she resigned herself to the inevitable. ‘Okay, you sit it out here until your mother rescues you.’She left him to it.Nothing had gone right.***Paul called in sick, and spent the rest of the day moping about the house. His mother had been a right pain, had told him that Jackie was a bit too old for him –“mutton dressed like a lamb”, she’d said.That was one of his worries. The bloody weather, plus his over-indulgence had cost him a long-overdue love-session. He couldn’t blame Jackie for stomping off – he’d been a right jerk.Sod it.It was back to square one again. If ... and there were a lot of ifs ... the weather improved; if work shifts on Operation Venus didn’t interfere; and if Jackie was up for it, there would be another live band the following week.He sighed.Was it worth all the hassle?

Daniel lay naked on his bed and felt his urges return. They were getting more frequent – and he knew the tablets weren’t working. Not that he cared – the prostitutes were trash.Good riddance.But he had to be careful. The front page of the Evening Argus highlighted the large-scale police hunt. They would have his DNA. They would be looking for him.No question.He thought back to his encounter with Lucy and her daughter. He cursed – he had told her that he was in the print trade. That would be on record.How many printers in the district?He clambered off the bed and scouted around for the “Yellow Pages” which was on the chair underneath the phone. He turned over the pages and looked it up.That was a relief. Several big companies; they would have many employees, and a few smaller outfits - including his.He could relocate his business and use a lock-up garage instead. His “cash in hand” customers were mostly “word of mouth” anyway, so he would be under the police radar.For a while.What else?His bed-sit? A couple of his suppliers knew where he lived. He’d better move out and find a hideaway flat in Harmony estate.Breathing space.Before making Lucy pay for grassing him up.And with that thought, an idea surfaced, which roused him into action. Wash, put on a rumpled shirt, jeans, and a well-worn leather jacket.And go hunting.The afternoon was cold, but the rain had stopped. He blended in with the Harmony inhabitants; no one took any notice while he explored his new territory. The paper shop window had a few dog-eared postcard adverts; but a new-looking one caught his eye. Relaxing massage by Precious, with a mobile number.He called it, went to voice mail. He left a message, and wandered over to The Victoria Inn to wait.Plenty of time.The pub started to fill up as evening approached; workmen in overalls, calling in for a quick one or three before returning to their rat holes. He watched and waited while nursing a pint of Strongbow. No one bothered him; he merged into the shadows, into a dark corner alcove. Watching. Waiting. A few hoodies slunk in, and surrounded the pool table. One tall hoodie signalled to the barman for drinks – he heard him ask for lagers – then he relaxed as they started their game. No hassle, no bother.Plenty of time.It was after eight when Precious returned his call. He kept his voice low.‘I saw your advert ... what’s on offer?’She told him.He told her his name and asked for an address.She said she’d freshen up, and then meet him outside the chippie. At nine. ‘Can’t be too careful, nowadays.’He agreed. ‘What you look like?’‘Black and curvy. I’m all woman. That suit you, mistah?’Yes, it did.He ended the call, and killed time by planning his next move. He guessed she lived alone. “New to Bridleton,” she’d said.A good start.But it stuck there. Until he knew more about the set-up, he would be patient and gradually draw it out of her while she massaged him.At five minutes to nine he slid out of his seat, and silently padded across the concrete floor to the door. No one took any notice; he was a shadow. Out into the cold, his breath steaming, and over to the chippie. He stood under the awning, out of the glaring fluorescent lights; just another shapeless layabout with time to kill.He guessed it was her, the way she kept looking around. No handbag; nothing to steal. He stepped out from the dark so that she could size him up from a safe distance. He knew he looked harmless enough; just another punter. He just stood there and smiled.She was wearing what looked like a long woollen coat, which accentuated the curves underneath. She seemed to shiver from the cold as she approached. ‘Dominic?’His new name; he had to be careful, just in case.He nodded, and stamped his feet. Chuckled. ‘It’s bloody cold out here.’She seemed to relax. Her voice was velvety, just like her skin. ‘I can warm you up, baby ... don’t you worry none.’He held out an arm – offered it. ‘We can go, then?’She linked it into hers. ‘This way, baby.’ She led him across the pot-holed road, skirted around garbage bins, past vagrants lying on sacks and drinking cider, and into block C. Lift not working; up the littered stairs, stepping over an addict, to the third floor with lucky number 36 at the end of the balcony.‘This is it, baby,’ she said, fishing a key out of her woollen coat, and opening the door.He followed her in, and closed it behind them.Plenty of time.The flat was more spacious than his bed-sit, but it was still cramped. On the way through, he sussed out the layout by asking for a glass of water. At the end of the short hallway was a walk-through lounge leading to the kitchen. A washing machine was spinning; the drainer sparkled; no dirty plates, cups or glasses, all were neatly stacked on shelves.To one side was the bedroom, with an adjoining white ceramic bath and toilet. It seemed to have been tacked on as an afterthought. He wondered how families could live in such poky places; but better than being homeless.Surprisingly, the bedroom looked the part; soft lighting, a musky aroma, and clean sheets. She pointed to her wardrobe. ‘You’ll find a hanger inside for your clothes, baby.’While he undressed, he watched her slip out of her coat and flat shoes. She was wearing a red blouse with the top buttons undone, and a short cream skirt. He licked his lips: plenty of cleavage, plenty of booty.Plenty of time.He laid face-down on the bed while she worked her magic; her sinuous fingers easing away the tension in his back muscles. He tested the water, to see if she would gossip.‘Are you new here?’She seemed willing to chatter. ‘Baby, it’s a long story, but I moved in two months ago.’‘Where from?’She laughed. ‘Bristol, before my boyfriend took off with another lady.’ She paused for a moment. He felt her drip more oil over his buttocks and down his thighs, her fingers kneading his rough skin. He felt her fingers lightly touch his prostate; arousing him. ‘Since he left me with no money, my life has been pleasing men. Now I’m alone.’It felt good. ‘Why Bridleton?’She touched him again. ‘Money, baby. Rent here is a lot lower, and I have a few customers. I get by.’So she wouldn’t be missed. He felt himself getting hard.‘So, it’s Okay then?’She sighed. ‘Not really. When I find another place, I’m out of here. You been outside? It’s like a shanty town ... the criminal next door pushes drugs, and the landlord, god help me, has his hands everywhere. He wanted free sex; told me if I didn’t cooperate he’d send his mates round.’‘Landlord?’‘Gilbert, his name is. He collects rent for some big crime boss.’ She slapped his leg. ‘Turn over baby. Time to have some fun.’Plenty of time.He turned over, and watched her undress. She teased him: offering one breast; touching herself, and then licking her fingers. He reached out for her, but she drew away and opened a bedside drawer.‘Condom, baby. Let me help you with it.’She slipped it on using her mouth. It felt great. His pulse quickened, and he felt a surge of blood as she started to ride him. A few minutes later she was on her back, and he was pounding into her like a run-away express train.She was gasping something.He felt a heightened sensation when the condom burst.Fucking brilliant, even better than the last one.She was writhing and gouging. She was scratching at his eyes and biting at his ear. He felt it rip. She was......the light went out.

Later that day, Angers marched into the MIR with a chunk of Mars bar stuck in his mouth and waved Jackie off to his office.She watched him swallow the morsel, and burp. He explained. ‘I’ve just got back from the Bristol mortuary. Another tom ... this time strangled, and dumped in a ditch off the M5. DNA tests on semen are awaited.’ He paused, made sure she was listening. ‘Indications are that it could be our killer.’Bloody hell. Just what we don’t want. ‘Are we keeping it under wraps, guv?’‘That’s the problem. It’s not ours ... yet. Bristol CID are playing the territorial game. They won’t relinquish the case until tests prove conclusive.’‘I see.’‘No you don’t see.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They’re holding a press conference right now. You can guess what Tania Simpson would make of it.’‘In some ways, guv, it would help.’Angers face contorted. ‘How the hell can it help?’‘Murders take priority, right? We can keep a lid on the HIV situation; it’s not headline news right now.’ She felt a cold draught and shivered.But God help us if there is an outbreak.Angers was not impressed. ‘Talking of priorities, the DCS turned down your warrant request. Not important, now that the press are involved. He told me to focus our energies on finding the killer.’Win some, lose some.‘Thanks for trying, guv.’Angers nodded, and then started to rummage around. ‘Ah, here they are,’ he said, pulling out a bag. ‘Toffee?’She shook her head, and got up to leave. ‘Plays havoc with my teeth, guv.’He waved her back down. ‘I still want you nosing around Harmony estate. Gilbert’s list of women; interview them. They might give us a lead on the killer.’Groan. More legwork.The first woman was a waste of time. She stood on her grimy doorstep, holding the scuffed door ajar, seemingly nervous, constantly looking around; wouldn’t look Jackie in the eye. Told her it was private business.‘So Gilbert didn’t assault you?’‘No’.‘He admitted he had sexual intercourse with you.’The woman cuddled herself. ‘As I said, it’s private.’‘Has anyone else tried it on?’‘No ... no one.’‘Are you sure?’‘Yes, I’m sure. Stop harassing me. Leave me alone.’Jackie gave up. She rummaged in her bag for a card with her contact details. ‘Thank you for your full cooperation. If you ...’But the woman had stepped back inside, and the door was closed.By late afternoon, Jackie had eliminated the three “actuals”. Not one woman was willing to implicate Gilbert. Obviously, he posed a bigger threat than her. Not that I blame them, she thought. She just hoped that her warning would stop Gilbert from any more molesting.She couldn’t breach confidentiality, and tell them about his HIV. Not unless anyone would be willing to press charges. And none did. It was like it had never happened. All she could do with the one who listened was to point out the dangers of HIV, and for her to take a test if she felt ill.What a fucking sick world.The four “maybes” weren’t any better. The two she could find weren’t talking either. That left Sonja Borski and Precious Mogwase. Neither had answered their doors, and there was no sound from inside. Jackie had peered through their letter-boxes, but hadn’t seen anyone lurking. She tried the adjoining flats, but the inmates weren’t any help. Two she recognised had criminal records for supplying drugs. “Sorry, none of my business” was the politest response.So much for community spirit, and neighbourhood watch.She made a note to follow-it up another day.Back in the MIR, Reilly came bustling in. He stopped when he saw her. ‘Hey Jackie, how you doing?’‘Working flat out, so I can get an early night off, maybe.’Reilly laughed. ‘Work brings freedom.’She looked up from the pile of files on her desk. ‘Eh?’‘That graffiti you gave me. “Arbeit Macht Frei” ... remember?’Jackie tried to recollect. ‘It’s been a long day.’‘That’s what it means. Work brings freedom. I looked it up on Google. The slogan was placed at the entrance of some Nazi concentration camps, notably Auschwitz. The Libertines recorded a song about it.’She remembered. ‘Not sprayed across lift doors then?’‘Bloody clever, though?’ said Reilly, as he wandered off.‘Very artistic,’ she said to his back. That rang a bell. She dived back into the pile of reports and dug Marty’s back out. The interview with Georgina: she skimmed through it. Danny Boy had told Georgina he had a printing job. Posters.How had they missed that?

She was there again, that was four times in one week I saw her kneel down and place a red rose in the vase by the grave.Four-red–roses - with love.I knew her well. A willowy Asian girl with wind-swept dark locks, wearing a simple black dress, black shoes - and wrap-around sunglasses covering her eyes.A cloud obscured the sun and cast a grey shadow across the stone flagon where she knelt. I heard the low throaty rattle of a raven nearby, and an answering call from its mate, but the girl seemed oblivious to their interruptions.It went quiet - apart from a whisper of wind that teased at a loose strand of her hair. She clasped her hands together and I saw her lips move while gentle teardrops coursed down her cheeks.I looked away, not wishing to intrude upon her private moments, but when I looked up again, she had vanished. I frowned, put down my spade and made my way across the cracked pavestones to the newly inscribed headstone. I brushed a grimy hand across my forehead and squinted at the epitaph - again.AnnieMy precious daughter aged 1 year 5 monthsShe brought joy and happinessAnd miseryTwo days later she was back, wearing a bright summer dress and sandals, holding a white rose to her uncovered face. The red roses were scattered and the white rose claimed pride of place in the vase.She smiled at me as I approached.‘Where you go, mister?’ Her voice had a flute-like quality that insinuated my senses.I pointed to my shed at the back of the graveyard. ‘I work here,’ I said, playing her game.She tried to clasp my hand in hers, but her eyes were cold and dark, like a raven.‘I go with you - now.’I felt a chill run down my spine.I stepped back and pointed at the grave. ‘Annie,’ I said, although it was more of a rebuttal.She glared; shrugged as if Annie was history.‘Bastard baby from a bastard father - your brother’s dead, Michael, I have fresh start.’A clap of thunder heralded gusts of cold air that swirled around, trying to tear me apart. She pulled me to her, fingers tempting my flesh. Her voice was a low rasp.‘I want you ... want your baby...’

Author

Bio: British age 74 (young) retired and living in Thailand. Profession, Charity Auditor working in some 40 countries over the last ten years before retiring. Familiar with writing reports to professional standard. Sense of humour, reserved, realist and down to earth. Enjoy writing with a passion for the unusual.Genre: Fiction crime Email: stephenterry747@hotmail.comPhone: 0066823250835 Thailand